


Talkaholic

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yeah.  Our date."  At John's pained expression, Matt finds himself faltering. And possibly panicking just a bit himself. "This… is a <i>date</i>, right?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talkaholic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's sexy_right community for the "Song in Our Hearts" challenge. The challenge was to write a fic based on one of the Top 10 songs during the week _Live Free or Die Hard_ was released in 2007. I chose the prompt "umbrella" from Rihanna's song of the same name.
> 
> * * *

"Anything else?" the waitress asks.

"Yes! I'd love another cup of coffee."

"Another one? Jesus kid, you're bouncing off the walls as it is."

When the girl smiles indulgently, Matt glances around the restaurant, frowns in confusion. The lights have been dimmed, the candles on the other tables are all snuffed out, the busboy looks like he's plotting a really intricate way to murder him, and somehow the rest of the patrons seem to have vacated the premises, even though it's only been – he flicks a quick look at his watch -- wow, three and a half hours. Okay. 

"Whew," he says. "Apparently we got caught up in talking, huh?"

John raises a brow. "We?"

Okay, Matt has to admit that it was him doing most of the talking. But that's because he likes the way John's eyes crinkle when he's amused, and the half-smirk that lets Matt know that he's engaged in the conversation, and the way he leans forward to touch Matt's hand when he's been rambling for too long and John's got a point to make. And sometimes possibly Matt may stay up half the night working out the lines that he'll use to get John to burst out in a full-on laugh, the kind that makes the other diners in the restaurant gaze over at their table and the waitress give John an admiring, knowing look before she bustles away to get the dessert menu. 

Three and a half hours isn't long enough to be in John's company. But he'd also like to not end the evening being strangled by the busboy's apron strings.

"Uh… maybe just the bill," he amends.

* * *

"So," Matt says when they reach the corner. "This is me."

He winces when the rain splatters against the back of his jacket, shuffles half a step closer to John as the other man glances down the stairs leading to the subway. 

"Yup," John says.

"Can't believe we kept the staff there so long," Matt says. "Guess that's what happens when we get to talking."

"Again with the 'we'," John says. But he smirks and shoves the hand not holding the umbrella into his pocket, so Matt takes that as a sign that he's not any more anxious to move on than Matt is. Which is fine by him. 

"I really should have listened to you about moving to Brooklyn," Matt says. "Getting home to Queens is gonna be a bitch tonight. But hey, not everybody makes the big bucks and can afford the big house just across the bridge, am I right? Some of us slog through our work for weeks, living on goddamn energy drinks and stale popcorn, and then the government, the Feds just come along and take it, just because of one little—" 

"Matt," John says patiently. "Let it go."

"Right," Matt says. He hunches his shoulders when the wind gusts again, tries not to shiver at the trickle of rain that makes its way underneath his collar to seep slowly along his spine. Despite the weather, he doesn't want this night to end. Luckily, he never has a problem making conversation – not even in a lightning storm. It's kind of a gift. 

"You know, sharing an umbrella is such an overrated cliché. I know, it's supposed to be all romantic, standing close, getting all up and intimate in each other's space, all that jazz. But what really happens is that _both_ of us get wet. Not," he continues, holding up a hand, "that I don't appreciate the gesture."

The umbrella wavers a little when John's hand twitches against the handle, and Matt reaches out a hand to steady it before they're both drenched under the downpour. 

"Romantic?" John rasps out.

"Sure, you know, standard old-timey Hollywood bullshit, and totally trope-y date material since, oh, at least 1952. If I didn't know better I'd think you actually planned it for our date, but then I have to remind myself that not even John McClane can control the weather. They probably use this cliche in half those movies you watch, right? No wait," Matt says, "your favourites always take place in those dry dusty towns with the guys in the white hats squinting into the sunset before saving the damsels in distress, and it never actually rains in, like, Lonely Town, Arkan—whoa, you okay there, big guy?" He reaches out when the umbrella dips again, this time teetering enough so what is definitely more than a splatter of rain douses his head before he can re-straighten it. He raises an eyebrow speculatively. "Maybe you shouldn't have had the shrimp?"

It's just a joke, but Matt starts to plan a strongly worded letter to the board of health about that damn restaurant when he looks at John more closely. John's gone a rather distressing shade of white, and Matt is reaching for his phone – though he's not sure if he should call the paramedics or the police or if somebody looking like he might faint in the middle of the street is cause for 911 or maybe just the regular number and they should really teach people this shit – when John stretches out a hand and curls his fingers around his wrist.

"Our date?" 

Matt looks from the grip on his wrist to the panicked expression on John's face, the mangled noise coming out of his vocal chords. 

"Yeah. Our date." At John's pained expression, Matt finds himself faltering. And possibly panicking just a bit himself. "This… is a _date_ , right? I mean, we've done the awkward initial visits and the getting to know each other and the sharing of interests and hanging out at each other's houses and… I watched baseball _and_ hockey. I memorized _stats_ , okay? So the next step is a date in an actual restaurant with linen tablecloths and and and… candlelight! And no big screens showing guys in oversized shorts chasing a tiny black object and this… is a date. Right? Because if not… I mean, I shelled out twenty bucks for a shirt with actual _buttons_ , McClane, and I don't know if you're aware but my finances are in a rather precarious position right now! I can't afford to just be buying shirts with buttons on a goddamn whim, is what I'm sayi—"

When the umbrella dips for a third and final time, it's because John has released it entirely to fist a hand in his shirt instead. Matt has a brief moment to watch it catch the wind and tumble down the street before John has shifted completely into his space and pressed their lips together. 

"You wanna come back to my place?" Matt asks breathlessly when they part.

John frowns. "Why are you still talking?"

"Right," Matt says. He swipes a hand through his rain-soaked hair, laughs. "It's just that that was a total movie cliché in itself, you know? The big gruff hero of the piece sweeps the slightly smaller, possibly a tad more effeminate sidekick slash love interest into his arms as the thunder crashes around them and—" He stops when John's lips are suddenly on his again, smiles when John finally releases him. "And I should really stop talking."

"Good plan," John says. "Couldn't get a damn word in edgewise on our date."


End file.
